


Centurion Speaks

by Flimflamflummox



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, News Article Format, Slight Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:47:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1754483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flimflamflummox/pseuds/Flimflamflummox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since the Pandorica has been on display at the National Museum of Wales, the Lone Centurion has been at its side. He refuses to stray from his position. While most people come to see the Pandorica, they also have the chance to ask the Centurion one question. He rarely responds, and then never in anything but vague statements, perhaps a nod. Everyone thinks they have the question that will break his silence, get a true response. This reporter had the good fortune of being on the scene when that time finally came.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Centurion Speaks

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this idea came from. I've been tempted to write a Doctor Who fic since I made this account, but it's quite an intimidating task. So here's me, starting small. Encouragement is most welcomed ;) Since this is supposed to be from a British newspaper, I tried my best to use British spelling and diction. Feel free to let me know when you see the inevitable mistake that's sure to be made in the process.

The Centurion stands behind a velvet cordon, leaning against the Pandorica. It seems he needs support less than he needs to simply be in contact with the box. He stares stoically into the roiling crowd, blinking at the flashes of cameras, tensing at any sudden moves. Nearby, the security guards enforce a very strict single file line, starting from somewhere outside the door, coming right to the side of the cordon. The first question of the day is asked. I can't quite hear it over the crowd, but the Centurion simply shakes his head and waits for the next person in line. Realizing I won't be able to hear the questions from my angle, I decide to hear them preemptively, writing down those I believed had a chance at eliciting a response.

With a flash of my press badge, I am allowed to pace the length of the line, asking questions at my leisure. At first, i simply listen to the nervous chattering of those in line.  
"I'm going to ask his favorite colour," one girl informs her friend, "That can't be so hard to answer."

Her friend replies, "I'm going to ask what his name is. He can't really be called Centurion, can he?"

I begin recording snippets of conversation.

"...when his birthday is, that's sure to be..."

"...not seriously just going to ask what's in the box, are you? Surely somebody's tried..."

"...load of rubbish, isn't it? He's just some bloke they dragged off the street and dressed like a Roman. He's probably being paid just to stand there and look sad..."

"...he's kinda cute..."

"...looks younger than 2000..."

"...let him keep that sword? What if he hurts someone?"

"...something about Roman history. He might be tired of people asking about the box..."

"...don't seem so tough..."

"...this line even moving?"

"...dare you to..."

"...last time he..."

"...washes his clothes?"

"...do you think he ever has to..."

"...go to the bathroom BEFORE we got in line..."

Eventually I realize that I'm not going to hear anything important unless I ask. Over the course of a few hours, I record the questions that will be asked. Most are obvious, some are boring, and quite a few are entirely inappropriate in my professional opinion.

On a side note, dear reader, all of what came previous was written before I met the little girl who didn't know. I am sorry to say that what I witnessed was so compelling that I simply forgot to write. Now, back in my office, I finish my story.

Finally, towards the back of the line, a little girl stood patiently in front of her mother. "There are so many things to do here," the woman chided, "Surely you don't want to wait in line all day."

"I have an important question," the girl answered with that particular childish certainty. 

Intrigued, I asked. "What are you going to ask the Centurion?"

The mother eyed my press badge uncertainly, but the girl immediately warmed up to me. "I don't know yet," she said, as though imparting a great secret, "but it's going to be good."

"You're trying to think of a good question?" I asked her.

She shook her head to clarify. "I'm waiting to see what question will do the most good."

I smiled at her childlike innocence, and her mother resumed trying to get her to change her mind. 

Eventually I persuaded the guards to let me stand at the head of the line to better hear the questions and gauge the Centurion's responses. As I'd heard, he really didn't say much at all. I found that the best way to see the Centurion's answers was to watch his eyes. They narrowed at the question "What's so important about some stupid puzzle box?" and widened at, "When you lived 2,000 years ago, were there any stars?" They shone slightly at "Have you killed anyone?" and he continued to tear up at the question, "Did you have a wife?" Finally, a single, silent tear escaped when he was asked "Are you human?" Nobody appeared disturbed by the Centurion's sadness. If anything, they looked triumphant. I was almost to the point of asking a guard whether the Centurion would ever be given a break when the little girl from earlier arrived at the front of the line. She took one look at his teary eyes and immediately blurted, "Did you want to be left alone?"

I watched in amazement as the Centurion broke down and sobbed. He spoke for the first time that day, saying, "I wanted to be left...but never alone." The girl took advantage of the momentary pause as everyone watched the Centurion to duck under the cordon and run up to him. She barely reached his waist, but even as her mother and the guards began to scream at her, she merely stood up on her tiptoes and gave him a tight hug. We all gasped as the Centurion fell to his knees and cried into this nameless little girl's arms.

"Young lady, you may not cross that line!" one guard began, and this little girl, a waifish thing of about seven, with wide blue eyes and a small pink ribbon, glared at the man with such vehemence that we all held our breath.

"You stupid people!" she yelled. "He doesn't have to be alone! You took him and you put him where he can see all of these people, but he can't even touch them! Nobody comes to just talk to him, only to bother him with dumb questions! Didn't anybody think that maybe he needs a friend?" She squeezed him very tightly and then crossed back to the other side of the cordon. Still frowning angrily, she grabbed her mother's hand and walked away. 

While everyone watched her exit in awe, I chanced a glance at the kneeling Centurion and was shocked to see a small smile. Quickly, before he once more became the center of attention, I whispered a question of my own. "What?"

Our eyes met as he got back to his feet, answering only with, "She reminds me of someone..." in a voice filled with more longing than I thought possible. 

While I didn't come closer than any other reporter has to finding out his origins or the truth behind the Pandorica, I discovered something far better: the renewal of hope. So if you ever go to the National Museum of Wales, find the Centurion. Spare a moment to smile, shake his hand, tell him what the weather's like. This Centurion is a mystery, an ancient protector, but most of all, he is human. However he stays alive, whatever curse or contract binds him, inside he is so very, very human. 

****************************  
Copyright, the Enquirer, June 25, 2009.


End file.
